The Wistful Accountant, A Poem

(Note to reader: HubPages formatting protocols will NOT permit me to lay the words of this poem out on the page the way they are supposed to be laid out. Very frustrating. Makes you want to go somewhere else)

The Wistful Accountant

these words

wash over me

like

raw silk

drawn slowly

over the gleaming round

of a white shoulder

like

syrup smoothing

down the bark

of mother tree

like

molten dawn seeking

quiet validation

from the pools of darkness

I breathe life

in all these images--

craftsman

progenitor

obsessor

servant

slave

ah! Euterpe, Erato, you wanton

sluts of divine grace

were it not

for your seductive ways

I coulda bin

an

Accountant

______________

© clark cook